


The Saviour of Blaviken

by stonecoldsilly



Series: The Wizard and the Witcher [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Another Book Club Banger, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Manipulation, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: Stregobor stands taller, addressing the crowd, and his presence is commanding, a firm voice of reason against madness. ‘The Witcher has saved us all from Renfri’s terror! She plotted to kill as many as she could, and only his bravery stood in her way! Behold, Geralt of Rivia, the Saviour of Blaviken!’
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Stregobor
Series: The Wizard and the Witcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932646
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	The Saviour of Blaviken

**Author's Note:**

> with special thanks to Franz, Punk, Llama, Shannon, and the wonderful Book Club pals who have all been so encouraging as we set sail for novel and exciting seas together on our lovely new ship :)

The minute he meets Renfri’s cold eyes in that marketplace, he knows that she is the greater evil. 

He has struggled with his own monstrosity all his life, and the horror of watching another’s descent; so like him, a twisted shadow of everything he could be if he only reached out and _took it_ … it shakes him to the core. 

He knows how dangerous those with mutations can be. He only has to look in the mirror.

She gives in, to her own nature, and Geralt will never forgive her for it. To threaten a child, to slaughter a whole town for meaningless revenge, it _disgusts_ him, and his skin crawls when he thinks of those gentle touches Renfri fooled him with. 

He can still feel the echoes of her tracing his body like fire, burning with guilt and shame, the same hands that bear steel against him even now.

She could have been so much more, but Geralt will not stand aside and let people die, not while breath still aches in his lungs.

Renfri wounds him, mind and body and heart bleeding all at once, and his body shakes and trembles with the pain, rolling through the agony as cold steel guts him.

He kills her. Quickly, cleanly, and wants to weep with the waste of it all.

Stregobor finds him then. 

The townspeople creep out from their shelter, and the stench of fear rises amidst the stink of copper and death.

The wizard reaches for him, and Geralt tries not to flinch, expecting the blow and cowering, but his hands are gentle on Geralt’s arm.

‘Come, you’re injured.’ He says, as though soothing a spooked horse, and Geralt bows his head, exhausted and heartsick. He ushers Geralt off his knees and clasps his hand in the air.

Stregobor stands taller, addressing the crowd, and his presence is commanding, a firm voice of reason against madness. ‘The Witcher has saved us all from Renfri’s terror! She plotted to kill as many as she could, and only his bravery stood in her way! Behold, Geralt of Rivia, the Saviour of Blaviken!’

The people cheer. 

Geralt looks about, eyes wild, and he never…he never expected this. 

All his life he’s been spat at by humans, and now they sing his praises. He can’t make sense of it, as though he tipped into some other world, fever and confusion rising in his already weary mind.

Marilka runs up to him, and gods be praised she’s safe, brave little Marilka, she runs straight into his arms. She clings to him tightly, and the pain in his stomach redoubles, and the people around them are talking about his bravery, and his breath quickens. 

He looks about for escape, desperately, and Stregobor is there.

The wizard takes over then, chivvying Marilka away kindly and sets the gathered crowd to cleaning up the bodies, taking them to the tower for want of a better place, and orders a horse and cart brought up for Geralt.

He tries to protest, but before he can open his mouth Stregobor has him settled on a warm blanket in the cart, and spurs the horse into a gentle walk to not aggravate his injuries.

‘You don’t… ‘

‘Hush Geralt, you’re hurt. You did so well today. You saved us all.’

His heart, normally so steady, patters wildly at the praise. 

‘The least I can do is help you recover.’

Hospitality, offered so freely, is rare for one of his kind. The princess was strong, and a capable fighter, so his injuries can attest to. 

He _will_ recover better if he can shelter for a little while in one place. 

Geralt nods, uncertain, and croaks out a thanks.

Stregobor eyes him carefully, glancing at the blood seeping from his thigh and stomach. 

‘My horse.’ Geralt says, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘Roach, please.’

‘Of course. I’ll have her sent for, and well looked after.’

He shouldn’t trust a mage to keep his word. He shouldn’t, but the promise of someone else taking care of things is a heady one. 

Exhaustion and blood loss blur his vision, and he slumps in the blankets, swaying dizzily, his sword loosening in his grasp, until he feels the world tipping sideways into the bliss of sleep.

He wakes up slowly, in a warm and comfortable bed, in a room he doesn’t recognise.

The sun shines in through the window, and his wounds are bandaged. His clothes are missing, and he can’t see his sword anywhere.

He has woken up in worse places, the finery of the room obvious from the chandeliers and rich carpets, portraits of stern impressive faces on every wall, glaring down at his nakedness.

The door creaks open, and Stregobor enters as if summoned. 

Geralt sits up on his elbows, clenching his teeth around a hiss, and scrambles at the sheet to cover himself. 

A tray of food floats in behind the wizard, and a glass of icy water appears on the table beside the bed.

‘Good afternoon, Geralt.’

The wizard smiles at him and beckons the tray closer to the bed with a wave of his hand.

A steaming bowl of soup and fresh bread greets him and he’s ravenous with hunger. He watches Stregobor carefully, looking for the trap, but the wizard bends closer to the bed, peering at the bandages, eyes trailing over the line of Geralt’s torso.

‘Coming along nicely, I think. I shall heal the rest later, once the residual energy fades.’

‘No.’ Geralt says, blankly. ‘I don’t need it.’

‘Of course, Geralt.’ Stregobor says, looking a little caught off-guard. ‘If you wish it.’

‘This is your tower?’

‘Master Irion’s, but yes.’

‘Roach?’ Stregobor sits on the edge of the bed gingerly and smiles at him.

‘Your horse is safe, and well fed. Marilka would hardly let me touch her.’

Geralt slumps back slightly in the bed.

‘Come Geralt, eat up.’ Stregobor gestures at the tray, and suddenly a little table appears next to him to set it down upon. ‘There’s clothing for you in the wardrobe, and a bath will fill itself if you step through the door in the corner.’

Geralt stares.

‘Thank you.’ He manages. 

‘You saved my life Geralt.’ Stregobor reaches for his hand then, and the touch is delicate, but firm. The wizard grasps his hand as equals, and Geralt ducks his head, eyes roving over the walls.

‘I don’t need all this.’

‘Well. Just until you recover then. Please join me for dinner this evening, downstairs, if you feel up to it.’

Stregobor leaves, and Geralt waits for at least ten minutes before he gives in and eats. 

He hides in his room, caught between dozing restlessly and pacing as best his leg will allow him, not daring to leave for dinner in case he presumes too much of the wizard’s hospitality. Another tray appears as darkness sinks over the tower, and he eats alone, and wonders what Stregobor is doing.

He bathes, washing the last sticky traces of Renfri’s touch from his skin, and rebandaging his wounds, trying not to think about cutting her down but failing miserably.

Morning dawns, and his stomach is tender, but looks to be healing well. His thigh, on the other hand, is blood hot and aching, swollen and sore to the touch. 

He sets off to depart regardless, dressing in the first thing he grabs from the wardrobe and limps his way down the tower steps to find Stregobor in the garden. 

Geralt steps through the shaded trees silently, on careful feet, and studies Stregobor’s face. 

The wizard sits alone at a little table, a cup of tea by his elbow, staring solemnly into thin air. He is surrounded by illusions of people, but not a one of them is real.

The sight stirs something in Geralt’s heart. 

He can recognise loneliness on others easily, when he is so familiar with it himself.

He steps closer, hesitantly.

‘I apologise. For my rudeness.’

The wizard looks up at him then, and he is caught in those piercing eyes. 

Stregobor smiles, and beckons him to sit, and share a cup together.

He tries his best at conversation, and Stregobor responds beautifully, like a flower turning to the sun.

The wizard surprises him, reeling him in with interesting tales of elves, charming his own stories from him before he’s realised what he said, and before he knows it half the day has passed, the words flowing freely and easily, laughing as he hasn’t in months.

He forgets himself in the warm sunshine, and shifts his weight the wrong way, hissing at the lance of pain that shoots up his leg.

Stregobor glances at his thigh, and reaches out, carefully, watching for his reaction.

Geralt lets him touch, long fingers gently trailing along the hidden edges of the wound. 

‘May I?’ He asks.

‘For what price?’ Geralt says, always cautious around mages.

Stregobor’s expression cracks a little, and the hurt is visible on his face for a half a second before he smooths it away again. 

Guilt prickles him, and he reaches for Stregobor himself.

‘Please. If you wouldn’t mind.’

Stregobor looks at him, and then bends carefully over his leg.

The wizard’s hand is steady on his thigh, and he gasps as Chaos thrums around them, magic igniting under his skin in a whirl of heat, hips nearly bucking to escape the twist in sensations. His ears ring, medallion buzzing on his chest, and then the crescendo eases, and he catches his breath in shallow pants, aching with relief.

Stregobor smiles, eyes dark, and picks up his cup again as Geralt thanks him eagerly, standing and stretching to test his range of motion.

The wizard asks him to dinner, no doubt expecting him to refuse as he had before, but Geralt stutters out an acceptance before he even thinks about it. He wants to stay, wants to talk more, wants to enjoy one blessed day without the stench of fear burning his throat or the dull misery of loneliness tearing his heart.

Geralt goes and bathes once more, and dresses in the finest clothes he can find in the wardrobe, determined not to think about why he’s doing it. There is no need to try and impress Stregobor, or pretend he can reach the refinement he so obviously lacks, but something about him makes Geralt preen at the attention.

Dinner passes in a haze, food barely tasted on his lips as they talk, comparing notes, Stregobor eager to discuss monsters and magic and Geralt’s life on the path. He shares his own tales, stories of the Brotherhood, kings and kingdoms of long ago, wars and knights and tragic romance that Geralt can’t help but marvel at.

It’s fascinating, and the night dims around them as they talk, candles waning until they can no longer make excuses and must retire to their own rooms. 

Geralt goes to sleep smiling.

The next morning dawns, and he greets Stregobor cheerily at breakfast in the grand hall, slipping back into the thread of their discussions as though the night hadn’t parted them for more than a moment.

He’s enjoying himself so much that when the wizard presses him to stay a little longer, he’s nodding agreement before he even knows it.

Stregobor is nothing but kind to him, and there is so much peace to be found here in Blaviken that he barely wants to leave at all.

Gods, next to Stregobor he feels a green boy again. Humans are short-lived, and he has watched villages shift and change and rise and burn in his time, but the wizard outmatches him by centuries. 

He knows _so much_ , an endless source of wonder, and Geralt can ask him any question he’s ever pondered, everything he was never taught in Kaer Morhen, and Stregobor will answer, not patronising in the slightest, and fetches him books that may have further details.

They often share the library together, and Geralt will be absorbed in some lengthy tome until his eyes blear, and he wakes from a doze covered by a soft blanket, with the wizard smiling to himself as Geralt yawns and stretches. 

He writes his own works at his desk, and Geralt drinks in knowledge as though dying of thirst, endless fascinating things to learn, racing through book after book until Stregobor glances up at him and ushers him firmly into the dining room, and spins tales of long ago and far away to delight him with as he eats. 

They argue over philosophy, and chaos, and the Conjunction of the Spheres, and Geralt doesn’t have to hold back in the slightest, not with Stregobor so easily outmatching him in combat and never once smelling of fear. He can say what he likes, he can be unguarded and honest, because the wizard is something other as well. They bicker and jibe with ease, and each night he wonders how he’ll ever pluck up the courage to leave this haven, where he is treated as an equal, someone worth speaking to, when Stregobor listens to him.

Stregobor will read him pages from spellbooks by the fireplace, that rich voice rising and falling melodiously in rippling Elvish, while Geralt rests on his belly and warms himself by the fire, gazing up at him bewitched, by the words and the wizard who speaks them.

Stregobor expresses an interest in his Signs, and Geralt shows him freely, after the wizard has shared so much knowledge of his own so kindly. He demonstrates them, and Stregobor praises his grasp of Chaos, and teaches him to focus them even more until his Igni can melt steel.

Slowly they become more easy with each other, sharing the sofa by the fireplace, Stregobor’s head tipping onto Geralt’s shoulder when he falls asleep reading late at night, vulnerable and relaxed in the presence of a Witcher. Geralt carries him to his bedroom, and marvels at the wizard trusting him so easily.

They experiment with the Witcher potions together, an endless supply of ingredients available from the wizard’s stores, which he insists Geralt make use of freely. Stregobor even improves the recipes, concentrating doses into a few drops, and Geralt copies out the formulas for him to work on further. 

Days pass, weeks trickling by, two or three, in this timeless place, this little haven, though Geralt honestly loses track. 

A month reaches them eventually, and Stregobor asks him to stay longer, at least one more night, so they can celebrate properly. A month, free from the threat of the Black Sun, and Geralt is desperate for any excuse to remain longer.

They drink, to celebrate, rare and aged wines and spirits that the wizard has collected, and Stregobor shows him the observatory, his magic singing around them to twist the stars closer.

They stand together amongst the galaxy, the world dark and faded around them, only the searing shine of the stars visible, Geralt’s head dizzy with the wine and the majesty of the planets soaring around them, and he has never seen anything so beautiful.

Stregobor steps closer, and Geralt sways towards him, helpless.

Starlight plays over his face, and in the hush of the observatory, he whispers Geralt’s name.

‘If you do leave, tomorrow, I would only give you one gift to take with you.’

Their hands brush, and the wizard has him in his grasp. Stregobor has given him far too much already, Geralt thinks.

‘And if I refuse it?’

‘Then we shall part as dear friends.’

Stregobor smiles at him fondly, and Geralt summons all his courage. 

‘And if I accept it?’

‘Then we shall not part at all.’

His stomach swoops, joy and fear warring in his gut.

Stregobor dares that final inch closer, and kisses him, a gentle brush of lips, half a sweet honey taste to tease him, and Geralt chases the kiss wantonly.

Geralt would do anything for this man, who shows him so much kindness and wonder, and he surrenders utterly to Stregobor’s embrace.

They trade kisses as Stregobor leads him to his bedroom, Geralt embarrassingly eager and clumsy with lust compared to the wizard’s calm and fond smiles, as Geralt catches him once more and presses desperate lips to his soft skin.

He disrobes hurriedly, naked in half an instant as Stregobor removes his outer robes sedately. Dark eyes trail his body, and he shivers in the cool of the bedroom.

Stregobor hesitates then and steps out of arm’s reach.

‘You are young, and beautiful, Geralt. My prime passed long ago, and I am not fair to look upon as you are. I have skills in illusion, as you know. Would you prefer?’

He shifts, and changes into a beautiful dark-haired woman, a slender laughing boy, forms flickering and shimmering madly, but he wants the man beneath them all. Geralt grabs for his arm and shakes it gently.

‘Not false faces. It’s you.’

The magic hums, and fades, and the wizard stands there, looking uncertain and almost fragile.

Geralt steps closer, and noses a kiss to his cheek, as firm and sure about anything he’s ever been in his life.

‘Just you.’

…

He settles into Blaviken so easily it ought to scare him. The Path beckons, and Stregobor portals him wherever the rumours of monsters are. It’s always a shock, to return to the world where men are cruel, and women are frightened. He trudges through the monotony of contracts, determined that this time he will be stronger, but as soon as he leaves, all he can think about is the sanctuary of the wizard’s arms, in Blaviken, where the people smile at him as he passes, and greet him as cheerily as they do any passing neighbour. 

He hunts for deer and elk with the menfolk, and they are bold enough to tease him, including him in their jokes and banter as equals, as though they are fond of him. The crones cluck over him, though he is older than any of them, and ask if he’s well fed. Marilka begs him for stories, and he can carry her piggyback without screams of terrified mothers echoing in his ears. The children playfight with him, and tackle him to the ground with glee, and none of them show any fear of him at all.

Blaviken is his home, and he cannot bear the Path any longer than a month before giving in and signalling his return to Stregobor, who always finds him within the hour, and brings him back where he belongs.

…

Stregobor has caught himself a pet Witcher, with nothing more than a few glasses of wine and the smallest show of kindness, easy as anything. He plans to make good use of him.

.

**Author's Note:**

> i am pleased to announce the very first stregeralt fic on ao3. may it be the first of many!  
> <3


End file.
